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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374905">Silk</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari'>caricari</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dry Humping, Frottage, Getting to Know Each Other, How to read your snake a bedtime story, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Armageddon, Post-Coital Cuddling, aziraphale being a bit of a bastard, communication porn, everyone has their own kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:54:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley gets back from a week away. Aziraphale has a surprise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Shinbi34's Recommendations</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Silk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have no excuse. The prose is from Gibran's 'The Prophet', to whom I now feel I must apologise.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He finds the angel in bed, propped up on pillows, with a paperback in one hand. It is only half past nine in the evening. Usually, at this time, Aziraphale would still be downstairs, ensconced in an armchair or scribbling away at his desk. Occasionally, he’d be having a bath, if he felt the need to unwind after a particularly busy day. To be in bed early, with a well-thumbed book, was a treat. One of the angel’s favourite indulgences. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A few of his other favourites sit on the bedside table, within easy reach. A candle, a mug of tea, a tray of chocolates. As Crowley watches, the angel selects one and pops it into his mouth, humming vaguely as he turns the page of his book. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon leans against the doorframe and folds his arms, admiring the scene. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s still getting used to the idea of he and Aziraphale sharing space. After so many years of holding his distance, it’s hard to cope with having so much angel. Not in a bad way. It’s just… a lot. To be able to have dinner with his friend several times a week. To have things planned, months into the future. To own a key to the bookshop. To have Aziraphale own a key to his flat. It’s been a comfortable slide into domesticity and, while the thought of that makes Crowley’s demonic skin crawl, the actuality leaves the insides of him feeling distinctly molten.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He likes the fact that they have keys to each other’s flats. He likes that they both have a key to the cottage he bought, a couple of months ago, in the rolling hillside south of London - a cottage which neither of them are quite bold enough to refer to as ‘theirs’ but whose garden is filled with Crowley’s plants and whose interior is full of Aziraphale’s stuff. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon had told the angel that he’d bought it to improve his outdoor gardening skills (there was more projection required than for indoor gardening, see - longer distances), but he’d actually bought the thing for the sole purpose of watching Aziraphale fill it up with crap. There was something incredibly appealing about having a space - unconnected to their previous lives as operatives of heaven and hell - that Aziraphale slowly inhabit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because his friend is a cautious angel, Crowley thinks, but when he takes a step forwards, he rarely retreats again. Once he’s made up his mind about something, Aziraphale commits to it fully. And Crowley can measure the progress in their friendship by how many cushions the angel buys for the cottage’s living room - or by the number of superfluous mugs and kitchenware he finds in the drawers, after the angel’s been to stay. And it’s comforting. It’s reassuring, for a demon who sometimes gets anxious over the longevity of his appeal. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So, they split their time between the city and the countryside on no particular schedule. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This last month, Crowley has been more out than in - immersing himself in the increasingly petrified garden, enjoying the few weeks of the year where England gives itself over fully to summer. His next demonic projects aren’t due to start for another few days, so he’s been raising a vegetable bed (sort of) and basking (mainly). It’s even been hot enough to discard his jacket and, occasionally, his shirt. He likes to feel the sun on his skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale has been down a few times, to visit. Likewise, the demon has popped back up to London every few days. They’ve spent a number of lazy afternoons together, discussing whether or not Aziraphale could bear to combine the pre- and post-socratic philosophers into one, singular greek section. (To nobody’s surprise, he couldn’t possibly). And, in the evenings, they’ve pursued all that summer London has to offer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’ve had pink gin at a new rooftop bar and cream puffs at the angel's favourite bakery. They've been out for Sri Lankan food up in Green lanes, and to watch a new play, on the Southbank. They've taken countless walks in the park. Watched the tennis. Gone shopping. Aziraphale has bought a new linen shirt, that he might ‘take it for a spin’ the next time they drive to the coast. Crowley has banned victorian euphemisms from the bedroom. It has been a busy month, all in all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon tilts his head, watching his friend. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They share a bedroom frequently, nowadays - whenever one of them is over, for the evening, or the pair of them are down, at the cottage. It is one of the best things about their new life, together. It's why Crowley has made the trip up to London this evening, rather than waiting until tomorrow morning. He has intentions, tonight. They’ve spent a couple of days apart and he’s craving a bit of reassurance that things haven’t changed. Or, perhaps, that things have.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They had taken a while to get their act together, after Armageddon. Both had been a bit clueless, about how much the other actually wanted to share, and neither of them had been brave enough to broach the subject. So, they had muddled along in their old pattern, for a while - drifting closer and spending more time, circling but never touching. And then, one night, warmed up by alcohol and an evening spent in one another's company, things had fallen into place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It hadn't been the great, existential show down that Crowley had always imagined. In fact, it turned out to be distinctly Earthly experience. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Standing in the half-lit bookshop, sweating a little and trying to keep his voice from breaking, Crowley had told his best friend that he loved him - in a number of ways. In all of the existential ways that creatures like them could love, as well as a few that were quite human and Earthly. And, to his eternal relief, Aziraphale had not run. Instead, he had smiled and said he felt the same. And the world hadn't shifted on its axis. No divine judgement had come reigning down. They hadn't suddenly felt like different people. Aziraphale had still been his friend. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Things had changed, but not in essentials. The angel was still slightly pompous and always took too long to get ready, for dinner. He still drove Crowley barmy with out of date anachronisms and all the backseat driving. They still bickered over the fundamental points of philosophy, and where to get the best sushi, and whether you could blend different types of wine grapes. But they could admit to certain things about themselves, that they couldn't, before. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Things like wanting to touch. And wanting to chase the pleasures of their earthly bodies together, rather than apart. Wanting to kiss, and spend more time together. To have a stake in a future, together. To sleep side by side. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sleeping bit is good, Crowley thinks, watching his friend from the doorway. Just as the sex bit is good. And the best bit of it all is that the demon doesn't feel alone, anymore. Because his friend is his friend - as he always has been - but he's also more than that, now. Now, Aziraphale is his partner. It feels like they’re signed up, together, for whatever comes next. And that is a comforting thought. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clearing his throat, the demon shatters the quiet calm of the bedroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Thoughts of the past have left him craving some indicator that he is welcome. Thankfully, Aziraphale does not make him wait long. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Twisting at the hip, the angel looks back over one shoulder, smiling as he finds the demon across the room. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crow-ley!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale has this way of saying his name. Delighted and drawn-out. Crowley loves it. Always has. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He leans a little more against the door frame, aiming for ‘nonchalant’ and hitting ‘flirtatious’ instead - but what the hell, he decides, on a whim. It is late. He is here. He has a happy angel in silk pyjamas, belly-down on a bed, and they’ve got six thousand years of not-touching to catch up on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Giving up door-lounging as a bad job, Crowley paces over and places a hand down, on either side of his friend. Face pushed into the angel’s personal space, he squints at the well thumbed book in the angel's hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh. Look at the <em>state</em> of that thing.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Now, now. It’s one of my favourites,” Aziraphale shoots back, defensively. “It’s seen rather a lot of action, this little book.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“S’been through the mill," the demon corrects. "Why don’t you just miracle it-,” he lifts a hand, miming a snap, but Aziraphale huffs and bats him away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t you dare! It’s a human story,” he stresses, throwing Crowley a petulant look. “You can’t go imbuing magic into it. It wouldn’t be right.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has this prim little way of punctuating a sentence that has always irritated Crowley and filled him with fondness, with equal measure. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Turning his face in, the demon presses his mouth briefly against his friend’s temple.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are ridiculous.” He mumbles, then drops a hip to perch on the bed, beside the angel, arms still resting on either side of him. There is something comforting about having Aziraphale safely ensconced within the bounds of his mortal form, brushing against his chest, against his heart. “How’ve you been?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His friend smiles indulgently up at him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, quite well, really. It’s been a busy few days, but I managed to finish early, this afternoon, and ordered some food from that delicious Thai place, down the road. Oh - and the new manuscripts came today. You know, the ones with that map I was telling you about, from the Greek fellow, down in Kent.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good...” Crowley watches his face from a few inches away. So much closer than they would ever have allowed themselves, in the past. So much better, he thinks. “Shop okay?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shop is fine. Had four customers, today, and no sales.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ideal.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How is the cottage?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, s'alright.” he shrugs. “The peonies have finally deigned to come out. They’re a pale pink, rather than the red I was hoping for, but I’m sure they’ll have bucked up their ideas by the time I get back, next week.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure. Did you finish the vegetable bed?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And did you use wood or brick, in the end?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Got some timber from that chap down the road - the one with the terrible moustache.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Chris?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uhh… yeah, sure. He gave me a deal on it. Works out at just about the right length.” Crowley casts an eye sideways, at his friend. “Had to use all of my carpentry skills. Rolled up sleeves, and everything.” He gives a little stretch. “It was all very macho. You’d have been very aroused.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmhm.” The angel smiles up at him, lips tight with amusement. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I planted some tomatoes down the far end of it and some lettuces at the top. And some chillies.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How spicy will they be?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well they’d better be at least semi-violent, or I’ll be having words.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wouldn’t it be nicer if they were just a little zingy? Oh-,” Aziraphale’s face brightens, “like those delightful dark-coloured ones we used to have, at that little place in Constantinople. They pickled them and served them with cheese, if I remember correctly.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was bloody two thousand years ago, Aziraphale. They’re probably extinct!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, do try and find them, won’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon sighs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright. I’ll have a look.” He’ll find them. He’ll bring them back into existence if he needs to. “No promises.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you.” The angel rearranges himself, pleased. “What else did you get up to?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Worked on my tan for a bit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have known you for six thousand years, and I have never once seen you with a tan.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine. I lounged around in swimwear, for a bit,” Crowley corrects. “I’ve got something new with frills involved. I look very feminine and leggy. You would have been very aroused.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you manage to fix the coffee machine?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh… didn’t get around to it, actually. Was pretty busy.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The corner of the angel’s mouth twitches. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have missed you, my dear.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You saw me four days ago,” the demon tries at exasperation, fails, then turns his attention to the book his friend is reading, instead. “What is this thing, anyway?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, just one of my old favourites.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale looks back down at it. Then, suddenly, seems to remember something. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Clearing his throat, he turns his face a little away from Crowley and takes a strange little half-breath. His demeanour shifts - something decisive about it - a weirdly pointed intimation that he's going to go back to reading. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s eyes slide over the rise of his friend’s cheek and up to his eyes, brow raised in inquiry at this abrupt change in mood.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You… uh… not planning to sleep tonight, then?” He asks, transparently, after a few seconds have passed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not really.” Aziraphale answers, in a slightly forced voice. “I won’t mind if you do, of course.” His eyes lift briefly, to give Crowley a smile, then return to his book. “You won’t bother me at all, dear boy. I can read with the lights low and you can sleep through anything. You’re very good.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The little sliver of praise does something, for Crowley - a turning over of something, deep in his abdomen. He hates it. Loves it. Hates that he loves it. Stupid, useless demon, that he is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay…” he hesitates, not sure how to proceed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s almost certain that this is a lead into something, rather than a rebuff. Maybe Aziraphale just wants wooed a bit? Well, the demon thinks. Wooing he can do. A straightforwards approach has always worked, in the past. Kit off, it is...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mind if I get in, then?” He asks, motioning towards the bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s far more interesting than a book, he thinks - even to Aziraphale. And he’s doubly interesting when he’s naked. They’ve not been spending their evenings reading, together, after all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do go ahead, dear.” Aziraphale turns a page, shifts slightly against the sheets. The silk of his pyjamas catches the flickering light from the candle.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley peels of his jacket and tie, watching his friend turn another page. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the past, he’s always double and triple guessed Aziraphale's actions - searching for reassurance in body language that wasn't there in words. As he tries the same tactic, now, he finds his friend's shoulders relaxed and his mouth curled into an easy smile. His breathing is a little faster than usual, though, his cheeks perhaps a little flushed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Okay, he decides. He’s not misread this. The angel is definitely interested. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Taking a step back, the demon pulls off his shirt, then unhooks his belt, kicks away shoes and slides himself free of trousers and socks - pants following a moment later, as he decides to aim for complete transparency, in the situation. Returning to the bed, he half-sits, half-kneels, staring down at the curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. And then he stalls. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This is the part where he usually gets undivided attention, Crowley thinks. Naked and making a clear offer of contact, this is when he usually receives worship of an angel. But it is always Aziraphale who starts things moving. Always Aziraphale who makes the first move. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon's eyes travel down between his friend’s shoulder blades, a little nervously. They must have done this a hundred times, but it’s always been Aziraphale’s lead and Crowley isn’t sure how to begin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Aren’t you too hot in these?” He asks, eventually, tracing a tentative thumb down the angel’s back, along the long divot between columns of muscle and flesh. “It’s a warm evening,” he keeps the tone light, explorative. “Could take them off…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, no. I’m fine, actually. I was rather warm, earlier, after moving boxes around all afternoon, but then I had a cool shower and I felt a lot better, afterwards.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Taking a lot of cold showers, these last four days?” Crowley asks, pushing his thumb into the back of a hip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not really.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well. There went that idea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right. New segue, the demon thinks, eyes scanning the bed. New prompt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He spots the chocolates and readjusts his plan. Taking his weight on one arm, he leans forwards, over Aziraphale, taking care to brush against his back as he captures the tray and brings it closer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are these?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Truffles. From that little place around the corner from your flat,” Aziraphale answers, breezily. "They're rather delicious. Champagne and raspberry. Do try one…" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Not really one for chocolate." Not really one for food at all, actually. "Though, I liked the bits that came with coffee, last week, at the tall building. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The cocktails were good, too.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mm.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"You had that pink one, didn’t you? The one with the-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley, darling, do you mind? I’m trying to finish this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley flops back down on one hip, glaring down at the chocolates, not sure what to do next. He picks at a small cherry-coloured number, then decides he doesn’t want it and puts it back in the tray with the others, pushing the lot away across the bed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Returning to his previous position, he uses the movement to bring his head closer to the back of Aziraphale’s, resting the tip of his nose into the angel’s curls. Slowly, incredibly lightly, he kisses the patch of skin behind Aziraphale's right ear. Then, a little patch on the nape of his neck. Then, he extends the tip of his tongue and traces a slow line up from the angel's spine. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale doesn’t react. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley stops and hovers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The smell of soap is clinging to the Aziraphale’s skin. Probably that new bar Crowley gifted him, recently, from that disgustingly expensive boutique in Kensington. Aziraphale likes it when he brings gifts, Crowley thinks. Perhaps, he should have brought him something, tonight. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Letting out a little sigh, the demon leans in, butting the bridge of his nose against the back of his friend’s mortal skull. He should have brought a gift. Even if it was only a small thing. Flowers from the garden, or a bottle of something, perhaps. He just hadn’t thought. He’d assumed that an offer of himself was enough. Was that presumptive? Did he fuck up, here? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Giving a little noise of distaste, at the path of his own thoughts, Crowley gathers himself up and drapes himself over the angel - landing in a loose, serpentine sprawl. One hand slithers under Aziraphale’s side. His right leg curls over an angelic ass. He’s half hard and pushed up against the swell of his friend’s hip, now. There isn’t really anything else he can think of, to imply interest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you going to read all night?” He asks, after five seconds of lying there, waiting for a reaction, watching Aziraphale’s eyes drift steadily down the page. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” his angel begins - still cool and collected, still thrumming with latent intent. “I did intend to keep going for some time… Why? Did you have something else in mind?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The words are measured. The tone just perfect. It’s a tease and it’s absolutely working, Crowley thinks. It’s working and he hates that it’s working. Because it’s so artificial, so performative. It’s so very… Aziraphale. And he likes it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>He hates how much he fucking likes it.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thought we might mess around a bit,” the demon grumbles, eventually, forced into truth to avoid further scripted dialogue. “But if you’re not in the mood, you can just tell me. I promise I won’t mope myself around the place, pining.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Much</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. I think that would be quite nice, actually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley, mouth already half open and prepared with a clever quip, to soften the inevitable rejection, frowns. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Eh?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’d like that. For you to mess around a bit.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Really?" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Yes."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait," Crowley frowns, "just me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I’m reading at the moment, but…” Aziraphale gives a slight pause - definitely for courage, this time, the demon can tell. “If you were so inclined, I suppose you could entertain yourself. I hear silk is very pleasurable, against skin.” He wriggles, slightly, and the demon’s eyes drop to the silk pyjamas, suddenly seeing the situation in a different light. “I thought, perhaps,” and his voice is definitely breathless, now. “I could finish my reading and you could finish… on me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Fuck. Okay. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley stares. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This is a kink. A proper little fantasy that Aziraphale must have been ruminating over for a while. The whole scene is a set up, a stage. And, Crowley’s angel falls very much into the ‘community actor’ category of performing, but it is what he enjoys. He likes a bit of theatre. A bit of show. He set this up, tonight, because he wants things to happen a certain way. And if he would rather tell Crowley that in this manner, than with words, then who is the demon to judge, really? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale has led him into every corner of sex that they've already shared. He's let Crowley's needs dictate everything. He's indulged every one of the demon’s whims. He’s gone slow. He’s gone fast. He’s held back. He’s given Crowley everything. He’s held the demon down and pinned him against walls, spent hours whispering praise against his skin. He’s never asked for anything that wasn’t about Crowley, too. And now he’s here, silk-wrapped and eager, belly-down on the bed. Asking for something.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So yeah, Crowley thinks, he can do that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay…” he breathes out, just a little unsteadily. Unwinding his leg, he pulls himself back up on all fours and picks his way over Aziraphale, until he can lean in and kiss the back of his shoulder. “I guess…” he’s not really that good at this. Sex is new and talking is new, and the combination makes him want to cringe and crawl away on his belly, but he’ll persevere, for Aziraphale. “I guess you need me to be quiet, then?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I <em>am</em> reading.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">How someone can sound quite so pompous when they’re asking someone else to rub off against them, Crowley can’t comprehend, but the sound of Aziraphale getting exactly what he wants flares joy, deep in his belly. And he realises he needs to replicate the sensation as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can be quiet,” he murmurs, sliding one knee between Aziraphale’s thighs, pressing another kiss into the back of his neck, before sliding his body into contact. “I can do that.” The silk against his skin is perfect. Aziraphale is warm, slippery, soft. “How do I know if I’m disrupting you?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll read out loud.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Of course you fucking will. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“If I stop,” the angel elaborates, “then you need to be quieter.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay… and if you want me to stop?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll tell you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley brushes a nose tip against the back of a silk clad shoulder, biting down on his lip to keep from biting down on angel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There is a long moment where his head is full of worry - about the pressure of the situation and that the friction of the fabric might not be enough for him to get off, and that he’ll ruin the whole, slightly weird thing - then his friend begins to speak and Crowley feels less worried. The familiar timbre of Aziraphale’s voice is filling the room. Soothing him. Grounding him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Here we were-,” the angel runs a finger down the page. Finds his place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Here we are. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley leans his body in, brushing his chest against the angel’s shoulder blades. Nipples drag against silk, sending a thrill right through to his abdomen. It’s exhilarating. New.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Below him, the angel begins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>And now your ship has come, and you must needs go</em>.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon presses slightly closer, finding himself the rest of the way to hard at the vibrations of Aziraphale’s words against his chest. The angel is taking the recitation very seriously. Perfect enunciation. Perfect inflection. He doesn’t react to the tiny, cautious movements that Crowley starts to make, and that makes the demon feel a little more confident. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He tilts his hips, tentatively pressing the tip of his cock against the underside of the angel’s ass, letting it drag, then catch, then spring free. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley shivers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The silk is good. Aziraphale was right. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Brilliant, beautiful angel. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Deep is your longing for the land of your memories</em>,” the angel continues, beneath him, “<em>and the dwelling place of your greater desires</em>.” His voice is steady - so incredibly steady. “<em>And our love would not bind you, nor our needs hold you</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The steadiness makes it better. It makes it something illicit, Crowley decides, angling his hips to brush belly, then chest, then cock against his friend, in turn. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It feels voyeuristic, somehow. As if he has crawled in, through Aziraphale’s dreams, to curl fingertips into that plush flesh and press his mouth against that angelic neck. It feels like they are meeting at some halfway point, between worlds - like they’re trapped one of those fantasies that consume the mind, in the moments before waking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It feels like the sort of thing Crowley had always imagined happening between them, late one night and perhaps a bit drunk, their inhibitions lowered. An accidental first contact, sustained without fully admitting to what was happening. Not meeting one another’s eyes. Definitely not meeting one another’s mouths. Perhaps belly-to-back, as they are, now. Shivering, and needy, and safe in the anonymity of the dark. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They never did that, he thinks. However close they got, over the years, they never broke that boundary until after the end. And that is not what this is, Crowley reminds himself, giving into the rising pleasure and allowing himself a little sigh. This is real. A fantasy, but a real one. Aziraphale is real, underneath him - solid yet yielding, and smelling of soap, and fresh paper, and chocolate. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His partner. His angel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Then said Almitra, ‘speak to us of Love</em>’.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the words fill the bedroom, a warm hand slides up, placing gentle pressure on the back of Crowley’s left hip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon has been hovering, up until this point - trying to be at least semi-controlled - but Aziraphale’s hand encourages him down and his hips jerk, reflexively. He groans and gives a little thrust into warm silk, and warm angel. And, all of a sudden, he’s reaching some threshold for dignity and stepping past it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Giving a whine, he leans his weight forwards. The silk gives and his cock slides in between the angel’s legs and - <em>fuck</em> - that’s good, because it’s warm and soft and he can feel the pressure all around him. And, then, he’s leaning back and sliding out again, nudging the tip of himself up through the crease of Aziraphale’s ass, skin sliding back to expose sensitive flesh. And his hand, anchored into Aziraphale's hip, is suddenly gripping on for dear life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The angel breathes slowly out, then continues. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>And he raised his head and looked upon the people and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice, he said: when love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">I’d follow you, the demon thinks, vaguely. Anywhere. Everywhere. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>And when his wings enfold you, yield to him. Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you, believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He thinks of the sword. He thinks of Eden. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He thinks of the angel, in the beginning, whiter than anything of this world, walking through the trees. He remembers watching Aziraphale, from a distance, as the angel ran fingers through bushes laden with red berries. Remembers him lifting them to his lips, seeds and juice spilling over his pale chin as he bit down. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">God, he has always loved watching Aziraphale eat; the performance of it, the enjoyment of something that should be so strictly mortal. It’s pure. It’s obscene. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley darts in to press a wet kiss against the side of his friend’s neck, heartbeat racing. He rubs his cock into the smooth cave formed by the angel's back and his own belly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Faster, faster. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning</em>,” the angel continues. “<em>Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth</em>.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Is there an echo of them in all literature, Crowley wonders, dazedly. Is their symmetry imbued throughout all of humanity because of those first acts, in the garden? The pair of them, memorialised in their pivotal diametric roles.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the moment, it seems somehow both ludicrous and feasible. Prideful, but likely. Because this earth is theirs, really, Crowley thinks, rubbing himself sideways against the angel’s thigh, feeling Aziraphale press back - feeling the angel’s hips lift, to give him better purchase. This world is theirs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Theirs</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gives a little moan. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale goes quiet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley snaps his mouth shut, swallowing a second moan with a shudder. They hover, still, for five seconds. Then, Aziraphale clears his throat and continues. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Like sheaves of corn, he gathers you unto himself…</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s heart starts beating, again. He presses his forehead against the angel’s shoulder. Pushes forwards. A few short thrusts over a flank. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>He threshes you to make you naked.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Fuck...</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I'll grind you into… something.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The thought doesn’t even make sense. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, breathing shakily out. He isn’t sure he’s processing language properly. He feels lost in the incredible unreality of the situation. He feels washed clean by this gift the angel is making, of himself. He is trembling, against Aziraphale’s back, feeling suddenly further along than he has any right in being. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>“He kneads you until you are pliant.” </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley bites down, not entirely softly, on his friend’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale lets out a half-gasp, voice catching slightly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And time is rushing around them - seconds of it, minutes of it - but it’s all blending together, inside of Crowley’s head. It’s just heartbeats and tension. Even the angel’s words are beginning to blur. He’s got impending climax rolling up and down his spine, sensation bringing him closer, then too close, then not nearly close enough. And all of his thoughts are taken up with trying not to make a noise - because every time he whines, the angel stops reading, and waits until Crowley goes quiet. And it’s maddening. It’s fucking amazing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bad demon, Crowley thinks, vaguely, grinning into the back of his friend’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Very</em> bad angel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He curves his spine, grinds himself closer, feels his balls start to crawl up against him. He’s close, now, muscles trembling with the effort. The muscles are cramping in one calf and he’s got the vague thought - at the back of his mind - that he should slow down and draw this out, for Aziraphale, but he’s not sure he can. The pressure is building too fast. He’s pushing something heavy up a hill and he’s hovering, just below the peak. He could tip one way, or the other. The pressure is intolerable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires</em>,” his friend’s mouth plays over the words, low and heated. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His cadence has finally changed. His breaths are coming faster, shakier. The next sentence doesn’t sound nearly as steady as Crowley’s hand slips and has to scrabble for purchase, muttering a little ‘fuck’. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>To m-melt and be like a running brook</em>-,” the angel stammers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The silk between them is wet. Crowley’s heartbeats are slamming in his ears. He’s absolutely shattered. Done. His muscles are screaming, tense and trembling.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-<em>that sings its melody to the night</em>. <em>To know the pain of too much tenderness</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a faint buzzing in his ears. He could pull himself back and the sensation might pass, he thinks, but he’s not sure his heart could cope with another ramp up. He’s not sure his muscles can last another round. They’re shaking, nearly tapped out. He needs relief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>To be wounded by your own understanding</em>,” Aziraphale continues, the words punctuated by sighs and gasps, in time with the demon’s movements. “<em>And to bleed willingly</em>…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sliding a hand down, Crowley nudges the angel’s legs apart and slides himself in-between, and fucks earnestly against him, swallowing the little groans that rise in his throat, pressing his open mouth against his best friend’s neck. Tensing, pushing, climbing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>Joyfully</em>…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then he’s teetering on the edge. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Angel?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a rushed little inquiry, because he’s not sure how his friend wants this to finish. And he’s desperate. He’s aching. But Aziraphale responds immediately, sliding one hand over his shoulder. Pushing fingers into Crowley’s hair, he holds him, making it clear that Crowley is meant to stay. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, darling,” he whispers, voice ragged. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Crowley pulls out from between his friend's legs and comes in hot, wet strings across his back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ah-!” He whines, into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Ffffuck!” Cock between his palm and wet silk, he grinds his hips forwards, mindlessly, helplessly. “God, angel… fuck!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Everything is white - his vision blanked out. He gasps as his muscles tighten, as his body shudders and jerks and eventually, finally, goes still. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nn-nnngh…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bit by bit, sensation begins to return. Crowley starts to recognise his own breaths again, over the pounding in his ears. The tingling in his thighs becomes fainter, his toes uncurling. He can recognise the feeling of wet silk, clinging to his skin, sticking them together. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes another twenty seconds before he identifies the little shifting movements that the angel is making, beneath him, as need.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh…” Gathering his scattered brain cells, he lifts himself carefully off Aziraphale. “Hey… roll over.” He leans forwards, nudging his nose into the side of his lover’s neck. “Roll over, angel.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale gives an incoherent mumble and rolls over on his side, letting Crowley to turn him the rest of the way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There you are…” the demon snaps clean the mess across his back and he dips his head in, pressing kisses into the angel’s neck. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley ducks his head, licking at a peaked nipple through silk. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, my dear…” there are hands in his hair, pushing at him downwards. A desperate, shaking angel arching up into him. “Yes, darling! Please…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley takes him in his mouth through the silk - only fair, to keep the barrier in place. He gives one, hard suck on the wet patch that’s already formed at the tip of the angel’s cock. Then another, making his friend whimper and squirm. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then, he’s giving series of firm licks, hand sliding up and down the shaft, in perfect time. And his angel is shuddering, thrusting helplessly up against him. So, he pulls the silk tight and holds him there, grinding his tongue against the underside of his cock. Forking it down, hard. And his friend whimpers, then yelps out his name, then breaks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Thighs tighten against Crowley’s sides. And, suddenly, there’s a wet patch, spreading out across the surface of the silk, seeping down the line of the angel's cock in pulses. There is pearlescent liquid beading through the fabric at the tip of him, where the pressure of his climax is greatest, and it makes the silk easier to slide fingers across - so, Crowley does. He gathers it up and rubs it over him, stroking him down, down, down, - slowly and firmly until his lover is utterly spent and his noises change from ecstasy to over-stimulation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful angel.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh…oh…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Aziraphale begins to twitch, he replaces fingers with his mouth, trailing tiny sucking kisses down to the base of him, through the drenched fabric. Then outward, against the inside of his thighs. Then up, to his hips. Pushing the hem of the silk pyjamas aside, Crowley presses his mouth finally against the flushed skin of his friend’s belly - still rising and falling rapidly as Aziraphale tries to catch his breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>So beautiful. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ministrations complete, the demon rests his forehead there, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and angel, feeling uncharacteristically grateful for existence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, my darling…” fingers stroke at his head and neck, the movements of them tender, grateful. “Oh…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon takes a few moments and then looks up, finding his friend’s face among the cushions. Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth a soft pink circle, his head tilted back in unrepentant bliss. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A smile draws itself across Crowley’s lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale has always been a complete tart for getting his cock sucked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a solid effort from his sex-weak legs, the demon picks himself up and crawls up over the angel. Snapping his fingers, the silk pyjamas vanish and then reappear, laundered and folded, on the back of the chair on the other side of the room. The angel underneath is left exposed for the briefest of seconds. Then, his body is covered by warm demon. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley…” Aziraphale gives a halfhearted attempt at disapproval, even as his arms and legs come up to tangle with the demon’s own. “I liked those.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmmh. They’ve served their purpose. Let them die with dignity.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Warm breath tickles Crowley’s cheek as the angel gives a soft, tinkling laugh. A nose presses into his neck. A temple against his cheek. Feeling a bit dizzy from the rush of post-coital hormones, the demon breathes in his soft curls, thinking vaguely of soap, again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A minute or so passes, in satisfied exhaustion. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then, Crowley sighs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well…” he turns his face in, brushing lips across a cheekbone. “That was... new.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d been about to go for ‘novel’ - thinking the book pun sounded very James Bond - but it doesn’t feel right, in the moment. He’s not ready to tease the angel about it all. Not yet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, I suppose it was.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley can hear, from his voice, that the angel is blushing. So, he lets him stay, nuzzled into the side of his neck, for a few moments longer. Allows him thirty seconds to gather himself, before drawing back to meet his gaze. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did I, uh… do it right, then?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yes.” The angel gives a nervous little half-smile, eyes darting between his own. “You were wonderful, dear, just wonderful.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley pulls a face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t have to thank me, you idiot. It’s not like I didn’t get anything out of the situation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know, I just..." aziraphale watches him, nervously. "Was it okay, for you?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley’s eyebrows jerk up, quite unintentionally. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It was dreadful, angel," he drawls. "Absolutely terrible. Barely made it through.” It’s okay to be sarcastic when they’re facing one another, he's learned. Aziraphale can see the way his lips pull back and infer no sleight. “It was brilliant…" he tells his friend, anyway, though. Just in case. “Think you wrung me out. Might have even got some in your hair." A little bit comedic self deprecation lightens the mood. “Sorry, mate.” He leans in, pressing a little kiss against the corner of Aziraphale's mouth, feeling him smile and press back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My own fault, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmh.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He kisses along his friend’s jawline, marvelling at the softness of the skin. Aziraphale shaves every morning when he washes, like a mortal does, but he obviously doesn’t expect the hair to grow back until overnight, because he never has a five o’ clock shadow, come evening. It’s a bit of a cheat, really. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not that Crowley can talk. He doesn’t bother shaving at all, just snaps his fingers and appears as he likes. They’re quite terrible, really, at this whole Earthly business.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They lie together, for a while, breaths syncopating, bellies pressing as they work fingers in between fingers, stroking thumbs over thumbs. Crowley feels distinctly like he might float away from his mortal form and just become one with the environment. It’s a nice sort of feeling, if notparticularly demonic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a few minutes, Aziraphale lets out a low sigh, and clears his throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose you’d probably like to know why I wanted that?” He starts, sounding a little nervous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley continues to trace around a thumbnail. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not if you don’t want to explain.” He turns his head to meet the angel’s gaze, finding his friend flushed and delightfully ruffled, curls more unkempt than usual. Crowley can see the beginnings of a love bite forming, in the crook of his neck. “You wanted it,” he shrugs, squeezing his fingers around a thumb. “That's enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale stares up at him, looking very fond. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are wonderful,” he murmurs, after a few seconds.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley feels his entire face flush scarlet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nnh. Leave off…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Giving a little cough, he looks away, busying himself in the retrieving of a blanket from the bottom of the bed and the pulling of it up, around the pair of them. Eventually, he manages to summon some form of decorum and look back over at Aziraphale. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The angel is still watching him, fondly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“To be honest, I kind of expected some weird kinky shit to manifest, at some point,” he tells the angel, the forced levity of his tone masking the wobbly nonsense going on inside his chest. “You’ve always been a bit of a dark horse.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like my body,” the angel smiles, still watching him with warm eyes. “I’ve had it for a very long time and I know what brings it pleasure. I think it’s healthy, to be open about that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, well... likewise,” bluffs Crowley, who - on the whole - would rather gouge his own eyes out than admit to all the filthy things he’s imagined Aziraphale doing to him, over the years. He’s got a good way to go before he can feel comfortable venturing that sort of information. One day, though… one day, he will. “So, uh… Is this something you like doing, then?” He asks. “I mean, is it something you did, with other people?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale gives a little exhale of a laugh, looks down, cheeks pinking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. Not at all.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They watch one another, shyly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It-,” Aziraphale grimaces, wrinkles his nose, then he takes a deep breath and begins to speak - quite a bit faster than usual, as if he wants to force it all out in one go. “It is rather more specific to you, actually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you remember that summer we met on the train, between Venice and Istanbul? We’d both been tasked to find and influence that chap who played cards at the-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The casino guy, yeah,” Crowley smile, slightly, memories playing through his mind like a reel of old film. They’re a bit foggy at first, then he’s remembering the clamour of the dining car, and the narrow hallways - people pushed up against one another as they passed. The warm air hitting his face as he leant out the windows, watching the long wind of the train slither through Europe’s green valleys. “Satan, I remember that… August, wasn’t it? It was hot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” Aziraphale's eyes slide over his face - perhaps searching for something, in his expression. “You had a second class ticket, so you were staying in a dormer bunk, at the rear of the train. I invited you into my cabin for a drink, to find out more about your plans.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bollocks, you did,” the demon grins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale has the decency to flush, slightly. Then, rolls his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, alright. I was mainly aiming for a bit of company but that’s neither here nor there.” He gives Crowley a tight little purse of his lips. “We had drinks with dinner.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes… we had a rather nice Bordeaux.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How on Earth do you remember that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I never forget a good wine. Plus,” Crowley eyes his friend, “you got horrendously drunk and let me stay over.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” Aziraphale swallows, falters, then continues, his cheeks very red, now. “Well, after dinner, we were chatting on the bunk and you fell asleep. So, I sat up, reading.” His eyes drop to the small paperback, lying on the bed a few feet away - a little ruffled from its ordeal. “I was reading this, as a matter of fact. And… well… I must have dozed off at some point, because I began to dream…” his cheeks darken until they are cherry red. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley feels his lips drawing back into a grin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You dirty bastard…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Crowley..."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You dreamt about me!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hah!” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The angel tries to squirm away, but Crowley is too quick. He traps him under his arms, wraps fingers around a wrist, nips in to place a wet kiss against the side of a neck. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dirty, angel. Dirty!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, for goodness sake…” Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale gives him a half hearted shove. “Get off, you ridiculous snake. There’s no need to be dramatic, about it. Nocturnal tumescence is a perfectly normal function of a human-shaped body-,” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ugh - no!” Crowley pulls a face, extruding a tongue that is still slightly forked from their earlier exertions. “None of that, angel. So much less sexy than saying you popped a boner dreaming about me getting my-,” He pauses. “What was I doing in your dream?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The angel stares up at him, lips pursed, clearly weighing up the pros and cons of going into detail. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” he begins, eventually. “In the dream, I was reading, in the bunk. Which, I’m sure you remember, was very narrow.” Crowley nods. “And you were lying behind me. So, I could… well… <em>feel</em> you, back there.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon gives a bark of laughter. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, for goodness sake, Crowley, do try and contain yourself!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry. Go on.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even Aziraphale’s forehead is red, now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you were wearing that silk dress, that you’d been wearing earlier in the week. And you were pressing up against me and making these little noises.” Crowley bites his lip, doing his very best not to react. “And I could feel the silk on my skin, where my shirt had become untucked. And it was all rather…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“...Hot?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The angel rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes. And, well… I continued to read, because I didn’t want to wake you. Because I knew that, if I woke you, you would leave - because we weren’t allowed that, when we were awake. We weren’t allowed that, in the real world.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The tone of the conversation shifts, becoming more serious. The laughter playing around Crowley’s lips fades a little, because he knows the dream that Aziraphale is describing - in essentials, if not in detail. He’s had it himself. Many times. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Beside him, Aziraphale gives a little series of blinks, then bites at his lip and continues - nervous and beautiful. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, I just kept reading. And you kept pressing against me and I couldn’t help but press back. And it was intolerable and lovely, all at the same time, and…” he gives a little exhale, “I wanted more, but I knew that I had to keep reading, because that was my excuse for being there. And we both seemed to be getting closer. And it all started to get a bit desperate, really, but before anything happened, I… I woke up.” He gives a guilty little flick of an eyebrow, a quirk of the corner of his mouth. “The whole experience was rather memorable.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll bet.” Crowley watches him, for a few seconds, then reaches out and brushes an imaginary piece of something off his cheek. A little touch. Just for reassurance. “So tonight was like… fulfilment of that, or something?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose. It’s a memory I’ve gone back to quite a lot, over the years.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It can be nice to rework a situation and get catharsis from it.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose it can.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Moments tick by. There is no clock in the room, save Crowley’s discarded wristwatch, but he feels the passage of each second, rather heavily. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I dreamed about you too, you know?” he eventually offers, his mouth trying to rebel against his brain, with each word - trying to pull them back inside, where they could be smothered and silenced, and have no power to betray him. “Always kind of knew that was something I was interested in.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale smiles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mm.” They watch one another, then Crowley clears his throat, pushing again past the hissing reticence of his brain. “You know, you can ask me for things, right?” he tells his friend, awkwardly. “I mean, if there are things you want to try, or try again, or… whatever. S’not like i’m going to judge. I mean,” a tiny shrug, “I’m definitely going to spend half of next week trying to find those stupid, definitely-extinct chilli peppers - and I can’t think of a stupider request than that one…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale smiles, shyly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Thank you, dear.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you don’t have to thank me," Crowley growls again, exasperated. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But I am thankful-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“-and I worry about these things.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A slightly softer moment passes between them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know…” Crowley reaches out, tentatively sliding fingers through his friend’s hair, separating one tangled curl from its fellows. “That’s why I said. Just want you to know you can… ask for stuff.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale watches him, with soft eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They watch one another another few long seconds, feeling a little more relaxed. Then, Crowley forces himself to add - because he had promised himself that he would; </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And, uh, you know... in case you’re ever interested… I still have that dress.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Aziraphale’s cheeks, which had only just been approaching a normal colour again, flush scarlet. He blinks a few times, eyes slipping off to one side, then manages to gather himself. “That… that might be nice, sometime, actually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley lets out a heavy breath. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right. Cool.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They watch one for ten long seconds, then the angel lifts both hands to cover his face and Crowley can’t help but chuckle - the noise shattering any awkwardness lingering in the moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t believe I just told you all of that.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t believe you <em>dreamed</em> all of it!” He grins. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, be quiet…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The demon leans in, pressing his face into the side of his friend’s shoulder, kissing the spot that he’d sucked a bruise into, earlier. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dirty,” he murmurs, quietly, after half a minute, but there’s no real tease in it. Just fondness. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale gives a little chuckle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They redistribute limbs slowly, so that they’re lying half across rather than on top of one another. Aziraphale shuffles around, picking up his book and getting comfortable against the headboard. Beside him, Crowley embeds himself more securely among the pillows and the blanket. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a silence that, in the early days together, they would have filled with banter or reassurances, which they don’t feel the need to fill, anymore. Crowley is happy, forehead pressed into the side of his friend’s shoulder. Aziraphale is replete, tracing circles on the back of his arm. They both feel very loved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so glad we have this,” the angel says, looking up from his book after ten minutes. He’s using the quiet voice that means he’s been ruminating on the road not travelled - on the horrors that might have awaited them, had things not worked out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley turns his face against the pillows, squinting up at him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Same,” he replies, sarcastic out of habit. “Would have run out of skin on my palms, eventually.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale gives a little ‘mmh’ of disproval. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Crowley tries again, more serious this time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Life is about five hundred and forty eight million times better,” he tells the angel, succinctly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Aziraphale looks down at him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Did you just pluck that figure from the ether, my dear?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah.” It’s the sum of all of his stars, in the sky, multiplied by the days he’s known the angel. He doesn’t tell Aziraphale this, of course. That would be far to demonstrative. “I did the math.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His friend eyes him suspiciously, for a moment, then seems to decide to let it slide. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Turning his attention back to his book, the angel turns another page and lifts his chin, peering seriously down at the top paragraph. His stupid tiny glasses are miraculously back in place. </span> <span class="s1">Crowley rolls his eyes and pushes his head back against the pillows. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He falls asleep, some twenty minutes later, and has a spectacular dream involving a helicopter chase in the alps and an excellent Islay malt. At his side, Aziraphale stays up, reading through the rest of the night with a faint smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It is the very best thing, in this world, to be known.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me lurking on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/">IG</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/heycaricari">Twitter</a>, and <a href="https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> @heycaricari</p></blockquote></div></div>
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